Page 21 of The Goat Next Door

She’s serious.

The system is ‘fine’ in the same way that a sinking ship is ‘fine’ because it’s still technically floating.

It’s a tragedy of missed opportunities, and I am itching to fix it. I’ve spent my life building empires, but apparently, my current life’s work is convincing a woman in a denim shirt that kerning actually matters.

“Ember,” I say, leaning in a little closer. “And it could work better, Marge! Imagine a clean, hand-lettered logo. I can design it for you. I have a degree from Manhattan School of Design, and my portfolio includes three corporate rebranding campaigns that resulted in a forty percent increase in millennial engagement.”

“We don’t have many millennials here,” Marge says, her voice dropping into a dangerous, icy territory. “We have farmers. And they don’t like rebranding campaigns with their coffee.”

“But they like efficiency!” I insist, my words tumbling out in a fast, hyperactive rush.

I am begging now, and I know I am begging, but the sheer wall of rejection I’ve faced today has triggered my deep, pathological need to be useful.

“Look, Marge, I don’t need the money. I really don’t. I will design the new logo for free. I will build you a complete digital asset kit, a social media template library, and a new outdoor menu board. And… I want to work here.”

Marge actually blinks this time. Her arms drop to her sides. “You want what?”

“A job,” I say, and God, I sound like an intern pleading for a summer placement. “I can work the register, sweep the floors, scrub the cases. I don’t want a salary. I just… I just moved into the Gilded Goat, my house is a disaster area, my goats only answer to ‘Kevis,’ and the entire town looks at me like I’m a walking public health hazard. I just want to exist here without being treated like a contagious disease. Let me clean your kitchen.”

Marge stands behind the counter, her sharp eyes studying my face with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. The non-nonsense exterior doesn’t crack, but the icy edge in her posture softens just a fraction.

She looks down at my black credit card, then back up at my red lipstick.

“You want to work for free,” Marge repeats. “In a bakery. In your white overalls.”

“I have other colors, too,” I offer eagerly. “And jumpsuits.”

Marge lets out a sound that is halfway between a grunt and a sigh. She reaches into a drawer beneath the register, pulls out an old-fashioned receipt pad, and scribbles something down with a stubby pencil.

She slides the paper toward me.

“Five dollars,” she says. “I charged you for a cookie to hit the minimum. Slide your card.”

I insert the card into the reader, the machine letting out its familiar beep of approval. I grab the paper bag and the coffee cup, my heart sinking slightly as I realize the pitch has failed.

“I don’t need a new sign, Ember,” Marge says, her voice rough but losing some of its initial hostility as she picks up her wiping cloth again. “And I don’t hire people who don’t understand that a brother-in-law’s paint job is worth more than a millennial strategy. But… I do need someone to scrub the flour bins on Tuesday mornings. The flour gets into the hinges and jams the lids. It’s boring, it’s messy, and it’ll ruin your manicure.”

I freeze, my hand wrapped around the warm coffee cup. I look up at her, my eyes wide. “Are you… are you offering me a shift?”

“Temporary help,” Marge corrects immediately. “Tuesday morning. 6 AM sharp.”

A grin explodes across my face. “Done. And you seriously do not have to pay me. Honestly, I’m happy to—”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Marge cuts in, fixing me with a sharp look. “I don’t take charity, and I don’t hand it out. You work, you get paid.”

“Marge, I literally bought a truck because I was having an emotional crisis. I do not need bakery money.”

“That’s your business,” she says flatly. “Eight dollars an hour.”

I blink at her.

Okay. I was fully prepared to work for free, but eight dollars somehow feels deeply personal.

“Marge,” I say carefully, “I think that hourly wage was legal in, like, 2004.”

“It’s flour bins, not brain surgery.”

I press a hand dramatically to my chest. “Wow. So this is what workplace exploitation feels like.”